


Humdrum

by westwoodandridingcrops



Series: Arguments in the Alternative (Sheriarty AUs) [1]
Category: Doctor Who & Related Fandoms, Doctor Who (2005), Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Crossover, Doctor Who/Sherlock crossover, Gen, M/M, Wholock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-29
Updated: 2015-07-29
Packaged: 2018-04-11 22:24:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 640
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4454672
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/westwoodandridingcrops/pseuds/westwoodandridingcrops
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Had he been a more self-aware man, he would have reasoned that he couldn’t be this angry with the whole world over not being the center of attention on this particular day. He might have questioned what had really provoked the turmoil that threatened to bubble to the surface. But he wasn’t, so he didn’t, and instead he reached for his violin."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Humdrum

**Author's Note:**

> [Tumblr.](http://westwood-and-ridingcrops.tumblr.com/)
> 
>  
> 
> Got an AU? [Prompt us!](http://westwood-and-ridingcrops.tumblr.com/ask)

Sherlock rolled his eyes as the election grew close. More properly, he took no notice of the election whatsoever and instead rolled his eyes at the interest which John showed in it. John would page through the paper for an endless amount of time, it seemed sometimes. Or, distractingly, he would bring up some candidate’s pablum to make idle small talk with Lestrade somewhere behind Sherlock as he knelt over a body.

The entire exercise of politics seemed pointless to him; though, granted, it certainly kept Mycroft too occupied to intrude on him. He took Mycroft’s absence from his affairs as a positive, and yet his annoyance continued to build as stupid slogans and buzzwords accomplished their overthrow of everyone’s conversation of late. Though he would never admit it, for to admit to it seemed the height of pettiness even to him, the final straw came on the day of the election proper when John dutifully returned from their local polling station (futile) and mentioned his politely subdued support (pointless) for a particular candidate on the blog. Then, the comments that poured in were more in support of John’s support (sycophants) and less about Sherlock himself as they usually were.  And that, well, yes, that  _was_  annoying.

He was in a huff, and worse, his huff was gaining very little attention from John who was currently at his laptop, browsing through political blogs. It was obnoxious. The cool, wet weather was obnoxious. The lack of anything even remotely interesting from Lestrade was obnoxious. Even the too-gentle, too-quiet, too-predicable tapping John was absentmindedly doing at his desk was  _obnoxious._  Having never been the most even-tempered of men to begin with, Sherlock found this particular fit of exasperation with everything building in a way that was reminiscent of a whistling kettle, signaling that it would soon boil over unless something interfered.

Had he been a more self-aware man, he would have reasoned that he couldn’t be  _this_  angry with the whole world over not being the center of attention on this particular day. He might have questioned what had really provoked the turmoil that threatened to bubble to the surface. But he wasn’t, so he didn’t, and instead he reached for his violin.

He thought he might play an ironic patriotic piece to annoy John and call attention to himself. He thought he might play a discordant note to shake John out of his reverie, but putting bow to string he found himself unable to play anything at all. It might, perhaps, have been attributable to how utterly aggravated he was at everything, but that, that at last, struck Sherlock as odd. Whether he was upset, frustrated, bored, or swept up in a burst of activity, he could always think of something to play. Instead, he noticed he had no idea how long he had been sitting there or how long John had been scrolling down that blog or how long it had been since he had started to pluck out the same four notes on his violin with his nail. Four notes, he realized with a curious mix of apprehension and interest, which synchronized perfectly with John’s continued, quiet tapping.

Four notes that seemed dry and repetitive in comparison to the music he sometimes composed in his head, but that he could not now get rid of, no matter how insistently he tried to dismiss the notes from his mind or the compulsion to pluck them out from his fingers. His brow felt as though it had been furrowed for some time, and still he kept on plucking, as his phone on the coffee table before him buzzed with a text. Later on, he would remember that the buzzing broke the silence only moments before that “Vote Saxon” video started playing again on John’s computer.

**Do you hear that too? JM**


End file.
